


A heart full of love (he was never mine to keep)

by Mikaeru



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Magic History, Mentioned Sappho (fl. 600 BCE), One-Sided Relationship, Sappho (fl. 600 BCE) Poetry, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), a lot of made up tags, he's presenting female when he's in Lesbos, meaning I know shit all about history I just wanted to talk about feelings, meaning there's a character trying to force Crowley but Aziraphales come to save the day, no one's really raped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23205628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: From the kinkmeme: "Unrequited love. No secret pinning. No slow burn. No mutual affection whatsoever. Crowley is deeply, absolutely and fiercely in love with Aziraphale : Aziraphale appreciates his company and might even consider him his best friend, but it doesn't go farther than that and never will; it's completely, hopelessly one-sided."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45
Collections: COWT - Clash Of the Writing Titans/Chronicles Of Words and Trials





	A heart full of love (he was never mine to keep)

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the lovely prompt this fic is written for [here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2282841#cmt2282841).  
> Written for this week's COW-T M2, prompt "anaxiphilia: to fall in love with the wrong person."

“Mmh...”, mumbled Aziraphale, smacking his lips, stained with deep red wine. Crowley wanted to kiss them clean. “You know, dear boy, this is good. Reeeeal good. You 'lways have good taste.”

“Sure thing, angel,” Crowley smiled, trying to sound nonchalant about it. He had looked for that particular wine for days, tracking back the vineyard, tasting the grapes more than once. He knew Aziraphale's tastes so well that a single grape could tell him if the angel would have appreciated it. And, this time, Crowley was right, and so happy about it. He wasn't nearly as drunk as Aziraphale was, because it had been years since the last time they had seen each other. Sutanati, it was, where Crowley had led an uprising against the nearer village (they won and there were no casualties). He still remembered how put out Aziraphale was, and how good the stew Crowley cooked for him was, the smile that spread on the angel's face. It was sort of sweet, how his mood could be easily improved. Simple, even if Crowley usually didn't like simple things. (and Aziraphale, and almost all things concerning him, weren't an exception.)

Humans hadn't invented trousers yet, so his ankles were on display, his knees, even a suggestion of soft thighs. Crowley's hands itched. How beautiful the angel was, cherry cheeks and moon kissed hair.

“Y'know, I always – I've always wondered why don't you eat.” Aziraphale had stuffed grape leaves, cheese and honey on bread, golden spots on his robe because he had started to drink way before he had started to eat. There was half a loaf of bread on their table, waiting to be eaten.

“m' not usually hungry.”

“You're not even drinking!”

“Had my share, angel.”

“Why, you have – you have to -” Aziraphale stood up, even if it wasn't necessary, still holding his cup. He stumbled on his feet, and all his wine fell on Crowley's chest. “Oh my! Oh, how clumsy I am!” He was so drunk he had forgotten he was an angel, and so he tried to dry Crowley's dress with his own, dabbing the front, grumbling as the white cotton absorbed the wine. “Oh, this is worse!”

Aziraphale's hair smelled like lemon, and was tickling Crowley's nose. “Angel, that's alright, you don't have to -”

But Aziraphale was already taking his tunic off, drunk and frustrated, and Crowley was blinded for a couple of seconds – all that fair skin, the soft curve of his belly, the legs he'd bite if he could, the trail of pale hair from his bellybutton to his groin he'd lick reverently. He was ready to drop on his knees in worship; but he closed his eyes shut and snapped his fingers; they both were dry and clean, but not less drunk. The world was not as sharp, as cutting, and standing near Aziraphale was less painful. (something spicy, something he was allergic to but loved deeply, so delightful on the tongue for the first two seconds.)

“Oh!”, exclaimed Aziraphale, his mouth a lovely, shiny o, “Thank you, dear boy, you're so precious to me.”

(it was a song, a hymn. The words carved their spot in Crowley's heart, in his veins.)

“Sure thing, angel,” he said once again, gulping. His eyes were heavy, and stinging a little, but Aziraphale couldn't see them. “Anytime.”

///

“Awed by her splendour, stars near the lovely, moon cover their own, bright faces, when she is roundest and lights earth with her silver,” read Sappho, scratching Crowley's head, whose head was lazily laid on her lap. Without her headscarf, forgotten somewhere before the evening started, her hair was flowing down her back, and she liked it best this way. She felt free, rebellious, even if she was a demon, so she was naturally rebellious; maybe she was going native. She didn't mind it one bit.

“That's lovely,” murmured Crowley, voice low and fruity. The air was warm, the sea calm and deep in her thoughts. She liked swimming underwater for long times, as she didn't need to breathe, and the other girls were so impressed. The waves were singing, now, a melody in a language she wished she could speak. She felt like the universe was always trying to talk to her, but she didn't have ears fine enough, teeth smooth enough through which those words could lay on her tongue, finally finding a way to be understood. With a sigh, she burrowed her face in the poet's thighs, soft and comforting, but not as soft and comforting as she though Aziraphale's thighs were. (she had dreamed about them that night, about nibbling them, tasting them, licking the salty sweat from the skin.) “Read me one again, please.”

Sappho stroked her back, kissed the top of her head. Crowley wasn't sure she loved her, but was happy enough with that affection. Wasn't that shameful, how much a demon could crave attention, being taken care of? She didn't like how she was built, all the pieces in the wrong places, forced on top of each other. Someone forgot some important pieces of her, otherwise she could feel differently about the cosmos around her.

“You're insatiable tonight, Glykera.”

That wasn't her name; Sappho gave it to her, as Crowley didn't think about one before arriving in Mytilene. Her quick temptation done, she felt like staying, as the sun tanned her skin and freckles started to pop out. She liked her freckles, liked having them as a replacement for her scales when she couldn't be a snake. And the stories were good, and she liked the pantheon of gods, their revenge and petty quarrels and the heroes born from them. When she met Sappho, she played along when Crowley said, with a devious smirk, that she was a nameless thing, a woman that her parents didn't bother to give her a name, and that was why she fled from her home; no, she couldn't say where she was from, as her home town was so poor and unworthy that Zeus himself denied it the privilege of having a name. Sappho laughed, an hearty, rich laugh, and combed Crowley's hair behind her ear. “You're funny. I could use someone as funny as you. Come at my house, tomorrow morning, I will introduce you to my friends.”

She was named Kopelia at first by one of the elder women, a mother of two whose husband had died in the field, struck by Hera. All the other women called her that, but Sappho thought it didn't suit her; and one night, after having hold her for hours, having listened to her wailing about a love she couldn't lay her fingers on (she babbled about an apple, a garden, something pure and clean she couldn't dare to tarnish with her undeserving being – she had said soul before, but how could she have one?), Sappho named her Glykera, as she thought it was more fitting.

“Yes, I am. There's a hungry hydra inside me, demanding my flesh. Feed me, poet, please, as I don't want to perish.”

Sappho chuckled at her dramatic expression (“You're quite the talent yourself, Glykera. You have a way with words, enchantingly so. How come you're not a poet?” Crowley shrugged, sniffled. “I think I'm more suited for another path.”) her hands braiding Crowley's hair, kissing it. She, too, smelled of salt and olive oil, of the wine they drowned their dinner with, bread and olives and grapes.

“You may forget but let me tell you this: someone in some future time will think of us.”

She tightened her grip around Sappho's ankles, sighing deeply, wetly. It was like every poem was written for her, as if Sappho was able to see through her. Once she looked at herself in the mirror of a shiny lake, like Narcissus did, to see for herself if she was real, if she had a body; sometimes she thought she was made of clouds, of eastern winds. She thought if somebody would write about them, someday in a faraway future. If there was a chance that all the love she felt wasn't meant to be wasted, if She planted it inside of her for a purpose. She fooled herself for a moment into hoping it was possible, that Aziraphale would, one day, finally see her in front of him, and kiss and kiss her. And then she grew sadder, as she knew how stupid she was being, how irrational and utterly moronic.

Sappho scratched her shoulder, planted a kiss on her forehead. “Do you miss him?”

“So deeply I can't breath, I can't think straight. There's this monster inside me and it has poisoned fangs and it gnaws at my stomach, my lungs. How can I survive? My body is not enough for me, this world is not enough,” she started crying, eyes hurting, body aflame. She thought of Aziraphale, how long since they had seen each other for the last time, how beautiful he was, how she missed his voice, his very presence at her side. It would be enough, to live all of eternity at his side, never asking for more, just to be his servant, to give him everything he could desire. How was that forbidden? Weren't demons supposed to be lower beings? Then why couldn't she be a slave to him, a dog? She wailed, tears scorching on her face. Crying always hurt, as if it was another punishment from Her, as if Crowley didn't deserve to feel cleaned, to empty her body from all the drosses. But she cried and cried, shaking with pain, with loss, even if she didn't loss Aziraphale – he was alive, walking around this world, making it better.

“I'm so sorry this man is doing this to you, Glykera,” Sappho said, her voice low and soothing, like a river. “You shouldn't allow him to hurt you like this. You must be stronger.”

“But I love him,” she hiccuped, “I love him, how can I not love him?”

“Love is supposed to make us stronger, not weaker. It's not supposed to skin us alive.”

“But I don't know how else to love. That's – that's how it is.” The letters melted on Sappho's dress, and Crowley felt small as a rat. “There's not another way.”

Sappho, strong fingers under Crowley's chin, kissed her forehead again, dared kissing her cheeks, and ventured dangerously near her lips. Crowley parted them in anticipation: was that kiss meant to be an ancient spell, a blessing from Aphrodite? She suddenly, desperately hoped Sappho could love her, could take her as a man takes a woman in his home, in his bed; if a poet could love her, maybe there was something right in her.

( _this is how you repay Aziraphale? So much for your love, so much for you undying faithfulness. He's not here and you open up for the first human that crosses your path? You're despicable, Crowley. It's no wonder he doesn't love you._ )

Crowley trembled under Sappho's mouth. The poet kissed her temple with warm devotion. “I couldn't steal you from him, as he possesses you even against your will.”

Crowley moaned at the words, feeling naked to her veins, her tendons. “I want him to possess me. I'm his since the beginning. I'm so sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, Glykera. Here, lay with me, I'll sing to you to sleep.”

Sappho took her in her arms, the gentle crashing of the waves intertwined with her voice.

///

He was kind and beautiful and generous and clever and cheeky and funny and smart and he was so curious about everything and he knew so much and he was so lovely when he talked about books and music and theatre and the artists he was the patron for and his eyes twinkled and he didn't love Crowley, but it was alright, because Crowley had enough love in him for the both of them.

///

He was sent to a king. Aziraphale was sent there too, to thwart Crowley's wiles. He was an advisor, while Crowley, even if he officially was one too, was sent as his lover, after Hell learned about this king's particular tastes. He loathed to be physical with him, and tried to avoid it as much as possible; he would have learned, centuries after, that the king was really into edging, and very much digging how Crowley denied his body to him. Crowley didn't want anybody to touch him; he just wanted Aziraphale. When he had to kiss the king – his face scarred, his neck thick, his fingers blunt and rough – he pictured him as blond, curly, pale skin perfect and intact, spring eyes and summer laugh.

(Crowley didn't want to fuck him. He wanted to make love to him, with him. Aziraphale could be on top, on his back, riding him or demanding to be ridden. Crowley would love it in every way. He bet the angel was a generous lover. They would kiss for hours, and he would make Crowley feel so good, so loved – no, this was selfish. Aziraphale was made to being loved. Crowley would have him on the nicest bed, candles all around, maybe music. He would kiss his angel so tenderly, violins so sweet their sound would melt on his eyelashes.)

Aziraphale was loved at court because he always had something interesting to say, some anecdote he had gathered around the world. Crowley was often seated near him, on the plushiest chair of the castle, laughing with him and

“How could you not have win him yet, angel?”, he asked one day with a teasing smile, when the king was away and the castle was almost silent. It was damp, though, and Crowley felt mould growing on his bones. “Why, with your eloquence and wit this should be very easy for you.”

“Yes, it should have easy,” the angel snapped, groaning. “Maybe I should admit your temptation is stronger than the way of good, this time.”

“Ah! So, do I win?”

“Maybe. We're not at the end of the game yet,” he smirked, mischievously. “I'll see you, Crowley, dear.”

How much he loved to be called dear. Aziraphale turned a corner, leaving him alone with a flower blooming out his canines; Aziraphale appreciated his work. He didn't mind to be defeated. He was – they were playing. They were _friends_ , at last, and there wasn't any alcohol in them, so he (probably) spoke the truth. Crowley kept that realization around his neck like the most precious gold necklace. Everything around him turned pink, blooming like a cherry tree. He felt, for just a moment, how it was to be an angel, when love was still as She intended.

But there was one time when the king – Henry, or Arnold, Crowley wasn't sure – decided he had been patient enough with his whore, that he had been kind enough, sweet enough on him, with all those gifts and wooing. “You have to give yourself to me now,” he growled, cornering Crowley with hunger. When he tried to snap his fingers, nothing happened; he looked into the king's eyes, found them red and sticky as old blood. He had made a pact with a demon of a higher rank than Crowley. He tried to bite the king who was dangerously approaching him with laboured breath, to fight with teeth and nails, but the man pinned him against the bed. Crowley tried to bite his neck, sink his fangs into the tender skin, but he failed once again. When he started screaming, the king shut him up with his arm on his mouth – but it had been enough because the room exploded with light, white and hot, blinding. Only Crowley was able to see Aziraphale in his true form – six wings, a thousand of eyes all over his body – but the king could hear him.

“What are you doing, human?” asked a gravelly voice, tumultuous enough to make the room tremble. The king tried to reply, but Aziraphale raised just a finger and seized his voice. He then took Crowley's wrist (he left his marks on the curve on the bone for almost two months; as much as Crowley could heal them, he didn't want to, and kissed them every night, when Aziraphale wasn't with him), and out in the woods they were, miles and miles away from the castle.

“But your mission -” started Crowley, heart still hammering against his eardrums.

“I don't give a fuck about the mission, Crowley,” replied Aziraphale, voice and corporation as hard as a rock. “Let's get away from here. The farther the better. Their food was subpar, I was tired to suffer through every meal. I'll ask Gabriel to be replaced by Kushiel, I'm sure he would have much more fun than us.”

They walked for hours, until they were on the seaside. They didn't talk; they just went to eat fish, to calm down. Crowley was happy.

///

He tried, during the centuries, he really tried. He forced himself to take a liking on some humans, to become native even in that. He tried, at least.

He tempted a married woman to leave his husband, who was a prominent politician of the party Hell wanted to lose, and leaving him for a younger man should be a blow hard enough to keep him to do his job seriously. She was beautiful, hair as black as a raven's wings, long legs that, Crowley imagined, would look wonderful wrapped around his waist. She was cunning, full of a brightness her husbands hadn't taken into account at all – he just wanted a pretty wife who could give him plenty of heirs. She birthed three healthy boys and a shy little girl who already thought about marriage. They all were left with their dad, when Daisy went away, happy and satisfied with her tall, dark stranger.

He kissed her, and luckily didn't feel like kissing the king. But it didn't feel good either, as she stroked his hips, groped him. She was a darling woman, but he couldn't bring himself to bed her. After three months she made her fall in love again with her husband, as soon as his party lost the most important election it was part of. Nevertheless he was happy to have her back, if only for appearance's sake.

Then there was a man who was taller than Crowley, stronger, harder. He liked to throw Crowley on the bed, snog him until his lips bruised. He didn't try to fuck Crowley, though, as he was waiting for a signal, for an open consent. He was funny and charming – Peter, he was, Peter Prince, rather a funny name, a bit of a mouthful, but Crowley liked tongue twisters, liked to repeat his name over and over again, until all the letters mixed in his mouth with laughter – and always brought Crowley in wonderful places – theatre, parks, museums restaurants. With him Crowley found out Aziraphale's favourite restaurant before the Ritz opened; he went there with Peter, who ordered for him as he was a regular customer and friends with most of the cooks, and for the first time in decades he actually ate, as he liked most of the food they laid in front of him.

“What's this?”, he asked Peter, who was cutting a steak in small pieces. He was dark in the face, a beard that covered most of it, and eyes that were almost black. He had fine, soft hand, nails always trimmed to perfection. Crowley had always paid attention to those minutiae, as he kept his appearance without a crease, without a smudge.

“Halibut with asparagus. Don't make that face, at least try it. I'm positive you'll find it to your liking.”

He did, in fact. He made a mental note of that, as he remembered Aziraphale was very fond of fish. He would take him there the next day, and order the halibut. Aziraphale would love it, and Crowley would rejoice in his delight.

“What are you thinking about, Anthony?”, asked Peter all of a sudden – or, at least, it appeared so to Crowley, who was daydreaming like a schoolboy.

“What? No, nothing, I was – there was a speck of light that caught my attention. You know how I am, sometimes.”

“Like a cat,” smiled Peter in a fond way that made Crowley's heart flutter a bit. “I know.”

The dessert was good too, a trifle with custard with almonds on top. He was sure Aziraphale would love that too.

They walked all the way to Peter's home, a severe-looking house in Clapham that his father bought him before he died of pneumonia. It was cold, but not as cold as the last three weeks, so they took the chance of a much-needed walk. Peter quietly talked about an art exhibition he saw the day before, one was sure Anthony would have loved, and the conversations he had with the artists involved, and how that reinforced his desire to become a patron of the arts. He grabbed Crowley's attention with that, and Crowley beamed.

“Mr. Fell, that friend of mine I talked you about, you remember him?, is funding that Westall -”

Peter's laugh started from his bellybutton, vibrating through his body. Crowley stopped in his track, properly looked at him, brow burrowed. “What're you laughing about, Peter?”

“The euphemism you used. Mr Fell, the one you talked about.”

“Yes?”

“As if you don't babble incessantly about him at every given opportunity.”

Crowley's ears started to ring, as his face caught fire. “You're mistaken, it's -”

“I don't care, Anthony,” Peter sighed, starting to walk. His home was half a mile away, and the air was already too chill. He knew how Crowley couldn't stand the cold, and he wanted both in front of the fire, a glass of brandy in hand. “I don't really care, Anthony. I understood long ago who Mr Fell is to you, and I decided not to care.”

He was a gentleman, and too tender, as if he wasn't afraid to be hurt. Crowley's heart stung a bit, a pinch on a violin's strings. “I don't know what are you talking about.”

Peter didn't reply, didn't even turn back to see if Crowley was following him until he was in front of his door.

“I'm not a fool, even if you think me so.”

“I don't, Peter.”

“Don't be cruel, Anthony. I don't think I deserve it, not from you at least.”

“I -” He couldn't bring himself to say he wasn't, because he looked at himself from outside, he understood Peter's heart. He hung his head, eyes on Peter's shoes. They weren't shiny any more; he needed to buy another pair. But Peter liked those shoes, so Crowley wished them new, and there they were. He made sure that Peter wouldn't notice.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Anthony?”

He nodded, wordless. He owed him; he liked him, he was a good man, so darling around his nieces and nephews. Peter had always wanted a family, but God had made him weird, his pieces with the wrong corners that didn't fit with each other, eyes that didn't see the world as it was supposed to be. It was what Crowley felt in him, that similarity. It was the first time Peter invited him in; they stayed at Crowley's place, usually, when Crowley had more power, when he felt more secure about his surroundings. He gulped when Peter closed the door behind them and started kissing his neck.

///

He left Peter shortly after that, twelve days into April. In the meantime, Aziraphale had fallen in love with a painter.

He was happy. He was singing, a voice Crowley pretended to remember from Heaven. (they didn't meet before the Garden, but Crowley wanted to think they had been always together, even when they didn't remember each other.) He dusted his books, he even made an appointment with a tailor for a new waistcoat and trousers, a tartan one, brown and cream. Light colours suited him so well, Crowley was enchanted to Hell and back.

“Oh, Richard brought me roses, the other day,” Aziraphale chirped, pouring Crowley a glass of wine, “and a box of chocolate. Some of them had nuts! Here, Crowley, I saved you one. They're not too sweet, I'm sure it'd be of your liking.”

Crowley munched on it absent-mindedly, pondering about this Richard fellow, a man he hadn't seen yet but he hadn't no choice but to love, as he was making his angel so joyous, so light. He swallowed that piece of black matter that was staining his teeth, and smiled through all the stories, all the praises on Richard's paintings, how well they were selling, the house Richard wanted to buy for both of them. “But, you know, I live here, after all, and I don't think two bachelors could live together without tongues wagging against him. I don't care about my reputation a bit, but I couldn't stand Richard's name dragged in the mud. He's so bright, so clever. You would love him too, Crowley. What about a lunch together, this Sunday? In that darling place you brought me to, that one with the delightful halibut.”

Crowley's heart shrank. He nodded, obviously, because how could he say no to his angel?

Richard was shy at first, but witty, not too chatty – but every time he said something it was poignant, clever. He was head over heels for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was too. Crowley stood there, uncomfortable in his chair, eyes stinging and claws threatening to show up, fangs too. He drank too much wine, made a fool of himself. Aziraphale frowned, but Richard found him funny, rather entertaining. They went out together several more times Crowley didn't count, because every second with Richard was a second stolen from his time with Aziraphale alone. How mean-spirited he was, how childish, almost as if he was a cub, an human child. Aziraphale was happy with someone else, because Crowley wasn't worthy, wasn't that clear? He should have been glad that Aziraphale had found someone else to spend time with, someone who wasn't bleak and stupid as Crowley. He painted a smile on himself, forced himself to be charmingly sarcastic, always a good sport, someone who didn't take himself too seriously, so Richard – who had grew comfortable in their company – could tease him about his cane, about his dark sunglasses. What was behind them, what sort of secret? Was he a vampire, someone from the fairy world? With a voice a bit too serious, Crowley revealed that he was Medusa, that he had the sunglasses to protect his friends from his curse. They all laughed, scaring the ducks in St. James Park.

And then Richard got sick. Something in his bones, the doctor said, although they weren't sure of what, exactly – or maybe his throat, another one said; but it didn't really matter. He was dead before Aziraphale could say he loved him for the last time.

They went to Aziraphale's home after the funeral. Crowley hadn't been there often, so he marvelled at every little change – he had the space memorized in that special area of his brain that was in the shape of bright white wings -, the new teapot, the new bookshelves, the new doilies he had covered the furniture with.

He didn't ask Aziraphale if he was alright; of course he wasn't, expecting otherwise would have been cruel. He started to make tea, as Aziraphale sank onto the sofa. His eyes were tired, his corporation crumpled. He had one of Richard's brush in his hand

“I should have known better,” he murmured unprompted, whilst the water was boiling. “I should have. How fool I was, when I let him falling in love with me? And I – I let myself too. I was so stupid.”

“No, angel,” Crowley said, already on his knees in front of him. The kettle was whistling. “You were not. It's only that – you have too much love in you, and you need an outlet, and Richard was so precious. You did nothing wrong. You enlightened his life, even if for a few months. Do you think he would have rather spent it alone? You were merciful. You're the very best Heaven has, you're not stupid. You're the very definition of love.”

Aziraphale touched his hand for a second, barely a moment, a butterfly's fluttering. He was feeling as his body was being torn apart, but smiled nevertheless.

“You're the only one I could talk to, Crowley. It's a relief I have you with me,” he said again, voice deep and tired; Crowley felt his words on his skin, fresh peach juice on his eyelids, “and I appreciate you very much.”

 _Say you love me_ , his mind dared to think, violently racing, violently pounding against his skull, _say you love me and I'm yours, the world is yours, I will use every drop of my powers to bring everything at your feet. I would Fall again for you. Just say you love me_.

“Sure thing, angel,” he said, lips curling in a crooked smile he rushed to smooth out, “we only have each other.”

The kettle was too hot when Crowley touched it; but he didn't care, and let it scorch his hand.

///

(Aziraphale loved a lot of things; he was an angel, after all. He loved himself best of all.)

The angel was in front of the bookshop and was chatting with a bright young lad, sharply dressed, eyes ablaze and back straight as an arrow, as if he was in front of the headmaster. How old could he be? Twenty, twenty one. Maybe still a student, maybe a bookworm. He, in fact, had a couple of books under his arms. Aziraphale had his most pleasant smile, the one made of fake pearls and cheap glass. Crowley was proud because the angel never used it on him, his smiles were always genuine. The boy touched Aziraphale on the forearm and Crowley felt it on himself, felt the nice wool of Aziraphale's coat. He knew that wool; the coat – elegant, warm, the colour of doves – was one of his gifts.

“See you at the club, Mr. Fell,” said the kid with a smile so wide it almost hurt. ( _I see you_ , Crowley thought to say, but knew better.)

“Oh, poor Henry,” Aziraphale sighed when the boy was out of ear, a slight twitch of his lips. He opened the bookshop, slithering in before anyone could catch him. “he's such a lovely chap. He fancies me, you know? Such a dear. “I feel rather sorry for him. But I couldn't stand it again.”

“Yeah, angel. It would be too cruel.”

(once, during a lonely walk on Canary Street, he heard a man calling his wife 'angel' in a caramel voice, and a righteous fury possessed him. How dare he? He almost struck him with his cane. But he wasn't the only one he heard, and Crowley quickly learned about so-called pet names. He didn't know if Aziraphale knew as well, but it was so lovely a concept he couldn't stop. Angel, angel, angel.)

“Oh, darling, you shouldn't have,” Aziraphale said, voice buttery and dusty pink, when Crowley gave him a cooking book he had looked for for ages. Not that Aziraphale ever cooked, but he read the recipes to have an inspiration about his next meal. “You're too good to me.”

He liked to think he was the first Aziraphale ever had called darling – but, even if he was, now it was too cheap, worn out. But he kept it around his fingers like a grandmother's wedding ring. “Don't mention it, angel, you deserve it.”

Aziraphale was smiling, and little bluebirds were singing in Crowley's ears. Aziraphale's eyes were soft and bright, soft as whipped cream. Oh, how Crowley loved his eyes. In his apartment there was a vase, in which he had put his most cherished plant, the exact colour of his eyes. The plant had little cream white flowers which never withered.

“You know, yesterday someone gifted me the most exquisite tea, all the way from Japan. Do you want a cuppa? It came with a lovely set of china, too. Just when I was thinking about buying a new one!”

Crowley knew all this. Aziraphale had shown him those teacups, those silver spoons, the sugar bowl that was now near the kettle.

“So you have a secret admirer,” Crowley teased, sitting not too comfortably on the sofa. It was all right, an old thing Aziraphale had loved for thirty years, but there was a tension on him, something steely in his bones.

Aziraphale lightly laughed. “Well, I think I must have. You know, at the Gentlemen's club there are a lot of nice men, all of them from very decent families, and so polite. It's very soothing, being in such a relaxed environment, when the outside could be so harsh and noisy.”

 _He means he doesn't like your company, he barely bear your presence, you stupid idiot. You're unnerving and annoying and boring as fuck_. Crowley blinked, a pang in his heart. What did he do wrong? They went to see a play twice that week, and it was Hamlet both times; and the last week they went to the circus, and Aziraphale was so upset by how they were treating the snake (he had felt warm about that) that Crowley miracled it back with its family. Didn't they went to that new restaurant Aziraphale was dying to try, although if Crowley desperately wanted to go to a pub? (he didn't say that out loud, obviously.) Aziraphale had been so happy about his salmon, he had even offered Crowley a bite. And didn't they go to listen to Oscar Wilde, even if Crowley was so jealous his stomach hurt? What did he do wrong, that Aziraphale preferred to be with complete strangers rather than with him?

“I see,” he said in a voice too small and pathetic. Aziraphale gave out a little sigh, and stroked his hand just for a moment.

“Oh, but my dear, you ought to know you're my favourite company,” he said, before turning to the kettle. Aziraphale made the best tea in London. “Would you like a butter biscuit with your tea? They're exceptional. James gifted me a box, the little dear.”

Crowley knew everything about James Adams, a 30 years old bloke who lived near Kensington Garden and was an avid reader of children's book which he read out loud for his two sons and had a pretty but bland wife, blond and vapid, who James loved like a cousin and who he was forced to marry when he knocked her up (“Oh, don't say it like that, Crowley, it's crude.”) and James was smart and a good kisser and, in general, very capable with his mouth. Aziraphale wasn't usually open about his sexual encounters, but he was often tipsy, if not drunk.

“Thank you, angel, I'd like one, just to know what the fuss is about.”

(Crowley hated a lot of things; he wasn't an angel any more, after all. He hated himself worst of all.)

///

Crowley had an imagination and he used it to hurt himself.

He fantasized about building a house in a nice neighbourhood, maybe outside of London, maybe near the sea: it wasn't black and sleek, it wasn't empty. It was choke full of books, of teacups, of sugar and honey and fresh flowers. Someone lived there – someone with a partner. He didn't dare to put faces on those ghosts – there were two names on his tongue, and that was enough to sting -

( _fuck fuck fuck_ )

One was blond and chubby and beautiful and perfect, with a cute nose and pouty lips and spring eyes. He'd read two books a day, and he'd had a notebook when he'd write every quote he'd like. He'd eat pancakes and tiramisu and rabbit stew and would drink wine and apple cider and would smell so nice. He'd be so happy in that house.

One was too skinny, too tall, too noisy and too dull, nowhere as interesting, and he didn't live there. Animals lived in the garden, in a tunnel, like moles. He'd visit the house sometimes, only when the other one would allow, and that wouldn't be often, just sometimes – and sometimes, the dull one would be so happy. He'd dust the books, mend every rip in the curtains, cook puddings, tend the garden. The owner of the house would never know he was there. But maybe, just maybe, one day the owner would accept him, just for a bit. Maybe he would let him stay for a couple of minutes, allow him to watch him eat, or read. Just a little, not for long. It would be enough.

Yes, it would be enough.

///

“ _Did you know that orca whales float on their sides at night to watch the Northern Lights?”_

“ _Oh, how much I'd like to be an orca whale. I bet it would be wonderful. So much free time, so much food laying around. And you get to see so many wonderful things!”_

“ _We still can see the Northern Lights, angel.”_

“ _Yes, but if we were orca whales I'm sure we would appreciate it better.”_

“ _Nah, I'd like them enough as I am. So, next trip confirmed?”_

“ _Oh, yes, that would be perfect.”_

They had talked about it just the week just a couple weeks before, when they were still sure about Warlock, when they were sure the Apocalypse would collapse on itself. And now the world was ending, the bookshop was warning, and Aziraphale was nowhere to be found.

(that beautiful bookshop. His nest, filled to the brim with comfort, dimly lit and protected against all the noises SoHo was full with. Crowley had projected it himself – the shelves, all the nooks, all the tables – and made it like Aziraphale found it by chance. How happy he was inside it. Crowley could stare at him for weeks, looking at the wrinkles around his eyes, the slight crease of his trousers where the book was propped up on, his frown when he found a rather clever fact, a new quote he loved that he read to Crowley. Everything was burning down.)

“Please!”, he shouted in the burning bookshop, wood creaking and glass shattering, “Please, I lo - please don't be – please! Please!”, he begged, feeling his throat so tight he was afraid it'd explode, chocking on his words, on his heart that was pouring out all that black matters that was Crowley's love, “Come back, Aziraphale! Please! Come back to me! Give him back! God, Satan, give him back to me!”

(he was sure he could find holy water. There was plenty of priests in London. He tried to think about a world without Aziraphale, and he only found a bottomless void, hungry for his soul. He needed to drink, otherwise he couldn't do it. There was something in his head, something humans call self-preservation, that was screaming at him that he couldn't die. He really had gone native, after all. He had to cover that voice in cheap whiskey.)

And then he was alive, and Crowley just wanted to fall at his feet, drowning him in his tears, drowning the entire universe. He was alive, he was alive, Oh God thank you he was _alive_.

///

It was just a moment, just a brief second. Aziraphale was so tired he almost fainted on Crowley's doorstep. He had to take him to a bedroom that didn't exist three seconds before. There was a tartan duvet, an Art Deco bedside lamp, some books on a shelf, in case Aziraphale woke up in the middle of the night, tireless and bored.

Aziraphale had fell asleep, his breath calm, sweet as August rain in Italy. Crowley lost himself looking at his face, his smooth skin, the gentle bump of his nose. He gulped once, twice, and then barely stroke his cheek. He retreated his hand, as if that skin burned. What was he doing? He was touching him without his permission, how dare he?

But.

But, how could he not? He was sleeping in his bed. He wouldn't ever know. And who was he hurting? Expect from himself, but it didn't really count.

Crowley curled up against him. Aziraphale was warm, like his favourite rock in the Dowling's garden when sometimes, when Warlock was at school, he would curl up as a snake.

“I love you, you know?” he whispered, voice so tiny it could break if he wasn't careful, “you're the reason I breathe. I love you so much that love is not enough a word, a concept. I -” Aziraphale shifted a bit in his sleep, startled Crowley; but then he didn't move further, and Crowley breathed out. “I loved you before I knew I had a soul. It was the love I've always felt for you that gave me a soul. You gave me one. Everything is because of you. You will never know, and that's fine. You wouldn't want a demon like me as your lover. I'm not – I'm not poem material, am I not? No one could every write anything about me, and you deserve so much better. Don't ever leave me, please. That would be enough, just – just be with me until the end of time. That would be enough.”

He didn't dare to kiss him; he didn't want to stain him. He just held his hand, pretended for a bit that his life was going exactly as he wanted. He breathed in his scent – he didn't smell of lemon this time, but he liked him nonetheless. “I love you dearly,” he smiled again, as if it really was enough.

“So,” started Anathema after a long silence, her spoon clicking against the teacup. They were in Crowley's apartment, like they were every second Friday of the month. Crowley liked her, her racing mind and all that silly nonsense she believed in, and she made a fine tea, and her pantry was always full of the most terrible junk food America had, delivered on a monthly basis on Cottage Jasmine's doorstep, and she always gifted Crowley something atrocious from the box. Now, he had his face full of Pop Tarts – he knew he could have find them at Tesco, but England was a stupid nation who only imported strawberry Pop Tarts, and not the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ones. “How's Aziraphale?”

“He's alright. An old copy of Sappho's poems just arrived, and he had read it three times already. He should come by to say hi, in about an hour.”

Anathema smiled, sharply and curiously, and leaned towards him over the coffee table. “I was wondering if, you know...”

“If...?”

“If you two were thinking about moving in together at last. There's a lovely cottage near my house, at Tadfield, for sale. I rather think Aziraphale would love it. There's a back garden large enough to grown vegetables, and a little conservatory too. You could in the sunshine there, during the winter.”

Crowley felt like sinking. “No, book girl, we didn't think about that. We don't – we don't even live together in London, why should we live together in Tadfield?”

Anathema was taken aback, and blinked once. “What? Wait, aren't you two -”

“No, we're not,” he replied a bit too cutting, and felt sorry, but didn't say it. He miracled another Pop Tart warm, started to rip it in pieces.

“Then what -”

“He's my best friend. He – oh, you know that he found that spell book you wanted so much? He said he'll bring it today. He's marvellous, isn't he? When you said how hard you had looked for that with no avail he immediately started calling every bookseller he knows and, trust me, he knows literally everyone. Did I tell about that time I was looking for an ABBA limited edition, and didn't want to miracle it in my hands? Wouldn't be the same thing. Well, he didn't even know who ABBA was, and he looked everywhere, and then he found it for me.”

“Oh,” said Anathema, sensing something. “You know, I don't really know Aziraphale. He's seldom around when I visit. I remember that one time you started to say something about a spring in Japan, around 1400? Didn't you said that he did something unforgettable? Tell me more about that, I'm curious. I had a phase, when I was a teenager, when all I thought about was the history of Japan, I want to know if the books lied to me even then.”

Crowley, too, sensed something in himself, but couldn't shut up. He dig out reminiscences about Kyoto, Abu Dhabi, Rome, Palermo, Madrid, New York when it wasn't New York yet. He babbled about America, when they finally went to see the Northern Lights the last month, how mesmerized they both were. He had taken photos of Aziraphale in that moment – he had taken photos of him since the day the humans invented the camera, and he had whole chests of old black and white pictures, and he also had a portrait of Aziraphale when he was in Sweden, at the king court, and he was presenting female. He had stole it, but didn't regret it in the slightest; the humans didn't deserve Aziraphale's beauty in their rooms. Oh, how darling he was in a skirt, with a corset, his face vaguely softer, his voice a bit shriller but lovely anyway. How many dresses Crowley had gifted him! So many he remember half of them. He looked so precious in gold, in plum, in crimson. Did he tell her about the time Aziraphale help a doctor finding a vaccine? And did he tell her about the time he sang for a princess? She fell in love with him, and how could he blame her? Aziraphale was perfect.

“No, you didn't tell me any of these things, and I want to know everything.”

Pop Tart cold and forgotten, Crowley was a flooding river. He talked until Aziraphale arrived, books under his arm.

“Have I interrupted something?” he politely asked, face a bit wrinkled in worry. “Am I too early, dear?”

Crowley smiled, easing the crease between his eyebrows.

“No, angel. You're perfect as always.”


End file.
